The Couch

Taliesen

Comments on Taliesen

Zum
Senior Member

Usergroup: Members
Joined: Jan 21, 2009

Total Topics: 23
Total Comments: 420
Zum
Posted 10/05/09 - 2:08 AM:
Subject: Taliesen
I want to start with a big disclaimer. This story is based very heavily on one by Robin Williamson, the awesome story teller, joke teller and musician. He used to come to my area and perform at the Freight and Salvage Coffee House. I had many of his tapes. The overall format is his. Much of the prose is mine. The poem at the end is his.



Avgady was a happy boy. Sometimes he felt like a kite, at other times a firefly. His deeper spirit was as steady as the configuration of the stars. So happy, it didn't matter to him that on the outside he looked like a toad or that his mother was a witch.

But to the witch, Ceridwin, Avgady's looks mattered, so she set a cauldron boiling; it was a brew that would confer universal wisdom to whomever drank a mere drop of it, intended for her ungainly child, for so she saw him. The cauldron had to be kept astir: she assigned this task to the servant boy, Gwyon.

A grayish stew, rather like nasty weather at sea, with flickers of light and vaporish fogs, giving off whiffs of fish bone, sea grot, black turf and whale wind. A boiling drop jumped onto Gwyon's thumb. Too shocked to cry out, he rammed the assaulted thumb into his mouth.

Then Gwyon knew all things.

Not only did he know them, he sort of WAS them. Each thing was like a secret word, or perhaps a word-splinter ached within it. The dog, the roebuck, the stag, the bird--these creatures barked, danced and crowed, always trying to say and to be themselves. Gwyon's eyes filled with tears of compassion for them.

He knew that he was in terrible danger, for he had the thing everybody wanted, though most had given up all hope of it. And there was Ceridwin, every cell of her red with rage--tooth mother, cub passion turned fury, calling allies from around corners and under doors of the world. Bonechalk friends of hers arrived from sky shelves and blasted trees. And she set after him.

As Gwyon ran, he found he had only to think a thing in order to become it. He became a bird and flew, but Ceridwin became a hawk and followed him faster. Plunging into the sea, he became a fish and swam, but she became a shark and followed him faster. Across the blue green and shifting acres of the sea, they altered form again and again. With each change, Ceridwin, whose malice was a stranger to fatigue, came closer by the width of the spider's leg.

Reaching shore, Gwyon became a greyhound and set off at heartknocking speed; she became a cheetah and followed him faster. As the cheetah's teeth sank into the greyhound's flank, Gwyon became a wheat groat and fell between two stones. But Ceridwin became a hen, and shoving the stones apart with her beak, she pecked up the groat and swallowed it.

Ceridwin took her triumph home. But nine months later, didn't she give birth to a baby, and it was little Gwyon. The baby was so perfect that, with all her wickedness, Ceridwin could not bear to harm him directly; so she put him into a leather bag and--looking the other way--flung him into the sea.

The grave old sea with its shifting moods and patterns, the wild sea, kept the bag afloat. All the while the magical child waited quietly. At last fisherfolk snared the bag and reeled it into their boat. Eagerly they opened it: maybe it held money! Out stepped the child. Startled, they asked his name, and he said,

I am Taliesen; I sing perfect meter
Which will last till the world's end.
I know why an echo answers again,
Why a liver is bloody, why bread is black
And why shoes are shiny.
I know why a cow has horns, and why a woman
loves a man,
why milk is white and holly green,
Ale bitter and ocean brine.
How many spears make a confrontation?
How many drops a shower of rain?
I know why scales are on fish and black feet
on swine.
I have been a blue salmon a dog, a stag,
A roebuck on the mountain,
A stalk, a spade, an axe in the hand,
A buck, a stallion on the hill;
I was grown as a grain, reaped, and in
the oven thrown;
Out of this roasting I fell to the ground,
Picked up and swallowed by the black hen.
In her crop nine days lain.
I have been dead. I have been alive.
I am Taliesen.

Then Taliesen became the great poet of Ireland.
Thinker13
Senior Member
Avatar

Usergroup: Members
Joined: Apr 27, 2009

Total Topics: 357
Total Comments: 3379
Posted 10/06/09 - 7:18 AM:

Do you know Taliesen,who has seen the wind?laughing


Awestruck and dumbfounded.eek. It has depth. It has craft. It has music. It has sheer imagery. It is a well rounded short tale.zen.




Thank you.
Thinker13
Senior Member
Avatar

Usergroup: Members
Joined: Apr 27, 2009

Total Topics: 357
Total Comments: 3379
Posted 10/06/09 - 7:36 AM:

Zum wrote:
I want to start with a big disclaimer. This story is based very heavily on one by Robin Williamson, the awesome story teller, joke teller and musician. He used to come to my area and perform at the Freight and Salvage Coffee House. I had many of his tapes. The overall format is his. Much of the prose is mine. The poem at the end is his.


Not heard of him,still,a very good musical piece,therefore it seems that he must be a brilliant craftsman.


This may well be,a very short-sighted reading on my behalf,yet,it is what has come to my attention span. Hope I do not disconcert you,or anybody else,for that.











.


As Gwyon ran, he found he had only to think a thing in order to become it. He became a bird and flew, but Ceridwin became a hawk and followed him faster. Plunging into the sea, he became a fish and swam, but she became a shark and followed him faster. Across the blue green and shifting acres of the sea, they altered form again and again. With each change, Ceridwin, whose malice was a stranger to fatigue, came closer by the width of the spider's leg.

Reaching shore, Gwyon became a greyhound and set off at heartknocking speed; she became a cheetah and followed him faster. As the cheetah's teeth sank into the greyhound's flank, Gwyon became a wheat groat and fell between two stones. But Ceridwin became a hen, and shoving the stones apart with her beak, she pecked up the groat and swallowed it.

Ceridwin took her triumph home. But nine months later, didn't she give birth to a baby, and it was little Gwyon. The baby was so perfect that, with all her wickedness, Ceridwin could not bear to harm him directly; so she put him into a leather bag and--looking the other way--flung him into the sea.

The grave old sea with its shifting moods and patterns, the wild sea, kept the bag afloat. All the while the magical child waited quietly. At last fisherfolk snared the bag and reeled it into their boat. Eagerly they opened it: maybe it held money! Out stepped the child. Startled, they asked his name, and he said,



I am sure that artistes of our couch family may not like my 'meanings'. Still,to be honest,I have observed a few similarities,in two of your stories,which may suggest,an inkling,a propensity of your creative part or that of your own nature.



You are perspicuously aware of Connors in Cadr Idris. He also had some similar experiences at mountains. Similar to Gwyon.

It is crystal clear that Neptunian dissolution of personal egoic boundaries accompanied with assumption of various forms,which is,quintessence of creativity,is highlighted in your creations.

Along with aforementioned trait,urge to know everything,life and death,also is a hallmark. So,taking various forms,as usually happens,in dreams,in imagination,is a routine with best of your characters,or say with characters you like most.

I have read somewhere that James Joyce is considered best Irish author. Is it right,Zum?




Thank you.
Zum
Senior Member

Usergroup: Members
Joined: Jan 21, 2009

Total Topics: 23
Total Comments: 420
Zum
Posted 10/06/09 - 12:20 PM:

Thinker, thank you for your response and appreciation. smiling face

It seems that you may share my affinity for Celtic stuff. For this story and the other one you mentioned, I accepted the influence of Irish writers.

James Joyce is a wonderful writer, indeed. Disaffected with Ireland, he left it and went to live on the continent. Having established physical distance from Ireland, he wrote of no other place... Dubliners, his collection of short stories, according to my reading, reflects discontent and restlessness in an environment too limited for his spirit. Portrait of the Artist combines harsh realism with the dreamlike quality that is to be found in the Irish myths.

I'm not familiar with "Taliesen, who has seen the wind..."
Thinker13
Senior Member
Avatar

Usergroup: Members
Joined: Apr 27, 2009

Total Topics: 357
Total Comments: 3379
Posted 10/07/09 - 2:19 AM:

Zum wrote:
Thinker, thank you for your response and appreciation. smiling face



Welcome,Zum.zen



It seems that you may share my affinity for Celtic stuff. For this story and the other one you mentioned, I accepted the influence of Irish writers.


Bertrand Russel,was also an Irish writer,methinks,though not an artist but a Philosopher. Was Oscar Wilde,too an Irish writer?



James Joyce is a wonderful writer, indeed. Disaffected with Ireland, he left it and went to live on the continent. Having established physical distance from Ireland, he wrote of no other place... Dubliners, his collection of short stories, according to my reading, reflects discontent and restlessness in an environment too limited for his spirit. Portrait of the Artist combines harsh realism with the dreamlike quality that is to be found in the Irish myths.



Great. Have you gone through Ulysses?



I'm not familiar with "Taliesen, who has seen the wind..."



Ha Ha! Again my bad English! I intended to ask omniscient Talisen:

"Have you seen the wind"?


And you thought that I was asking about a piece to you.laughing




Thank you.
Zum
Senior Member

Usergroup: Members
Joined: Jan 21, 2009

Total Topics: 23
Total Comments: 420
Zum
Posted 10/12/09 - 12:25 AM:

Oops! I never answered your question, Thinker. Yes, Wilde was an Irish writer, so promising as a young man, his competitors despaired. I have heard him acknowledged as "one of Dublin's seven deadly sins." The speaker was Irish himself; he was praising Wilde.



Thinker13
Senior Member
Avatar

Usergroup: Members
Joined: Apr 27, 2009

Total Topics: 357
Total Comments: 3379
Posted 10/12/09 - 1:47 AM:

Zum wrote:
Oops! I never answered your question, Thinker. Yes, Wilde was an Irish writer, so promising as a young man, his competitors despaired. I have heard him acknowledged as "one of Dublin's seven deadly sins." The speaker was Irish himself; he was praising Wilde.






Thank you. There was another question,about Ulysses, though.
Zum
Senior Member

Usergroup: Members
Joined: Jan 21, 2009

Total Topics: 23
Total Comments: 420
Zum
Posted 10/25/09 - 10:02 PM:

I have not gone through Ulysses. Maybe next summer.

Taliesen has probably been the wind.
Search thread for
Download thread as
  • 0/5
  • 1
  • 2
  • 3
  • 4
  • 5



Sorry, you don't have permission . Log in, or register if you haven't yet.



Acknowledgements:

Couch logo design by Midnight_Monk. The photo hanging above the couch was taken by Paul.

Powered by WSN Forum. Free smileys here.
Special thanks to Maria Cristina, Jesse , Echolist Directory, The Star Online,
Hosting Free Webs, and dmoz.org for referring visitors to this site!

Copyright notice:

Except where noted otherwise, copyright belongs to respective authors
for artwork, photography and text posted in this forum.